


Just Borrowing

by orphan_account



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Emotional Constipation, M/M, Sharing Clothes, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8444683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Daryl didn't offer Jesus his vest much, but when he did Jesus held each occurrence highly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in a writing funk lately, so if my prose is awful I'm blaming it on that. 
> 
> Daryl/Jesus is taking over my life and TWD consumption. I have a few drafts but none of them are turning out well, so I tried to write something fun and lighthearted. Similar one-shots will be added as I think of them, spanning pre-relationship to ~Established~. I hope you enjoy!

The first time he wore the vest it was because Daryl put it on him, of all things. There’d been an accident with a pair of rogue travelers on a simple supply run (misstep, stab wound) that ended in blood spurting from Jesus’s side. He hadn’t noticed until the two assholes were dead on the ground, when Daryl sucked in a breath and lunged to support him.

“Paul,” he said tersely, in a tone Jesus had never heard from him before. 

Jesus looked down to find a river of blood oozing down his stomach and leg. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Daryl mimicked. “You stupid ass.”

“That’s not good,” Jesus said. 

Daryl tugged him toward the car, abandoning the shopfront they’d been appraising. “C’mon.”

He opened the passenger door and managed to recline the seat with just one arm, his other slung around Jesus’s back. 

“Lay down,” he ordered. 

“Not a fan of that tone,” Jesus said as Daryl nudged him into the car. “Far from romantic.”

“You promise not to pull some shit mistake like that again and I’ll fuckin’ wine and dine you,” Daryl said. He hunched over Jesus and rolled up the shirt now sticky with blood. “Damn moron.” 

Jesus looked down at his wound. As his torso rose with increasingly quickened breaths blood spurted out incrementally to join the rivets pooling onto the car’s upholstery and the waist of his jeans. He remembered how early he and Daryl had left that morning, and how he hadn’t had breakfast, or even much dinner last night. 

“I didn’t have breakfast,” he told Daryl.

Daryl looked up from rummaging in the glove compartment for the first aid kit stashed there. “If you don’t shut up I’ll gag you.”

“We’ll need a safeword.” 

“Fuckin’ Christ.”

“That’s what I’m getting at, here.”

Daryl finally tore open the kit and generously poured a cleaning solution over a patch of gauze. “This might hurt,” he warned, and splayed his hand over Jesus’s chest. The pressure was comforting. Jesus didn’t have any capacity to analyze that, and left the thought there. So attentive to every knuckle hair, white scar, and nail bed on Daryl’s hand, Jesus didn’t realize Daryl was done cleaning the wound until he procured a needle and tightened the knot of thread with his teeth. 

Jesus still had enough of his wits to ask, “Have you ever given stitches?”

Daryl glanced at him briefly. “Can’t be that hard.”

“Shouldn’t you give me a belt to bite, or a shot of whiskey?” 

Daryl shrugged his vest off and set the collar near Jesus’s chin. “It’s leather, don’t worry.”

It tasted gross, but smelled like Daryl, which was still kind of gross. Any other observations could not be made, as Daryl again warned Jesus before pushing the needle into his skin. Jesus inhaled sharply through his nose, teeth clamped down on Daryl’s vest. 

“Nice and easy, huh,” Daryl said as if to break the silence Jesus was now unable to incessantly fill. By the time Daryl was done, sweat poured down Jesus’s temples and he felt vaguely sick and tired. 

“Hey, Paul,” Daryl whispered, and brushed Jesus’s hair back in an unusually tender gesture neither man took note of. “It’s all good now, promise. You did nice.” 

“Now you’ll get your sewing badge,” Jesus mumbled. 

Daryl snorted and moved to the driver’s side. The day’s cargo had been well enough, and Daryl drove straight back to Alexandria. Jesus rested fitfully, half-conscious with his side painfully throbbing. Daryl never moved his vest, and the scent calmed Jesus as much as Daryl’s hand against his chest had. 

Jesus jolted awake when Daryl whistled sharply at Alexandria’s gate. Once the car was safely inside, Tara and Rosita climbed down to greet them. 

“Oh, fuck,” Tara said once she saw Jesus. “What happened?”

“He’ll be fine,” Daryl assured, “don’t let him fool you.” 

Despite his flippant words, Daryl rounded the car and helped Jesus up. 

“Take him to the infirmary,” Rosita said. “I’ll take the car to inventory.”

Daryl nodded his thanks as Rosita hopped in behind the wheel and Tara returned to her post. 

Jesus thought he could walk fine on his own, but stayed slumped against Daryl’s side anyway as they waltzed through Alexandria. Daryl’s vest slipped off his chest eventually. “Hold up,” Daryl said, and bent down to pick it up. Instead of putting it back on or simply holding it, he hung it over Jesus’s shoulders. “There you go, champ.” 

“Aw, babe,” Jesus grinned. With Daryl’s scent hanging over him, he found the weight of the leather on his back solid and grounding, but only said, “What a gentlemanly thing to do.” 

Daryl smirked. “Don’t push your luck.” 

At the infirmary, Denise’s brows rose when she opened her door to the sight of them. “Um.”

“Let’s get to it, doc,” Daryl said.

“This scout needs his sewing patch,” Jesus added proudly. 

Denise stepped aside to let them in. “What actually happened?”

Jesus sat on one of the beds, and Daryl dutifully stood vigil beside him, saying, “He got himself stabbed, and I stitched him up.”

“Tis but a scratch,” Jesus dismissed with a sudden English accent.

Denise wheeled over a table covered in supplies. “Cool reference, but it’s not cool how you got yourself hurt.”

“You’re acting like I stabbed myself.” 

“You’re not stupid,” Daryl said, “there’s no way you couldn’t’ve dodged that.”

“I’m as fallible as you, even if it’s hard to believe—” Jesus hissed as Denise began prodding his wound with cold, gloved hands. 

“Well, it’s not deep,” she observed.

Daryl waved a hand. “I didn’t see none of that, uh, stuff.”

“Adipose tissue,” Denise clarified. She ducked her head to further inspect Daryl’s handiwork. “Actually, you did pretty good. I’ll just clean it as is.” She lifted her head and smiled cheekily. “Wanna become a nurse?” 

“A sexy nurse,” Jesus said. 

“Man, I’m done babysittin’ you,” Daryl snapped. Still, his lips quirked in a slight smile. “He hasn’t ate for awhile,” he told Denise. “Now he’s gone and lost a shit ton too much blood.” 

“I’ll keep him here for a bit, hand feed him Saltines, don’t worry,” Denise said. She clapped Daryl’s arm. “Look at you, all concerned.” 

Daryl rolled his eyes. “I’ll pick him up when I’m done at inventory,” he said, and made to leave. 

“Wait,” Jesus called, “your vest—”

“Just borrow it,” Daryl said. He lifted his hand in a lazy wave. “I’ll take it back later.”

Denise glanced between them bemusedly, then shook her head and started preparing gauze to clean Jesus’s wound. Jesus sank into the pillow beneath his head, and tugged Daryl’s vest tighter around himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending is pretty shitty but I just wanted to get this out of my docs, especially before tonight's episode airs.

With his stitches nice and clean and bandaged Jesus was relegated to watch duty, only allowed outside of Alexandria if he was traveling to Hilltop with another person, all by Denise’s orders. After a quick nap in the infirmary, fully rested and recovered, Jesus certainly did feel some remorse for his mistake, but not by much. Daryl came back as he said he would shortly after Jesus awoke, and Jesus continually made fun of Daryl for “escorting him home” as they walked through Alexandria together.

The gibe fell flat, however, considering Jesus slept in Daryl’s living room when he stayed in Alexandria—it was illogical for him to keep a house he’d only live in half the time, and he didn’t want to intrude on any families or couples. Thankfully, Daryl was hermetical and lived decidedly alone in one of the furthermost one-story homes. His pragmatism trumped any oppositions he had to rooming with Jesus, but it took a long time for him to warm up to Jesus’s actual presence when he became the Hilltop’s representative after the war.

But if you asked Jesus now, two weeks after his injury, they were best friends forever, evidenced by how Daryl gruffly inquired Jesus on the state of his wound every morning, or always found something to complain about his run partners, now that Jesus was unable to go with him as was procedure. It was endearing and hilarious.

One quiet evening they sat on the back porch, hidden from the eyes of Alexandria’s residents as Daryl preferred. Daryl’s boots rested atop the rail, and Jesus sat beside him silently. Daryl procured his pack of smokes from his vest pocket and lit up, eyes narrowed at Jesus over the flame.

“What?” Jesus asked.

Daryl puffed meditatively. “You aren’t talkin’,” he stated. “It’s weirdin’ me out.”

“Daryl, if something was bothering me I’d tell you, that’s what best friends do.”

“Whatever,” Daryl grumbled, though his shoulders did seem to loosen a bit.

“I’m just thinking about what you promised,” Jesus continued moments later. “When I got stabbed.”

Daryl flicked his cigarette. “All I remember promising to do is kick your ass.”

Jesus shook his head. “No, you distinctly said you’d ‘wine and dine’ me.”

“Damn,” Daryl acquiesced. He stewed over his cigarette for a bit. “Well, once you’re ungrounded and shit goes on without incident, we’ll see.”

Jesus blinked, genuinely surprised. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m sayin’ Aaron makes mean spaghetti, and if you behave I’ll consider allowing you to step foot in his place.”

“A big move in our relationship,” Jesus acknowledged. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Daryl said.

And yet Jesus tried his hardest for the sake of Daryl’s promise. When Daryl returned home from his runs Jesus would welcome him back with dinner and a fresh pack of cigarettes rolled with Hilltop’s own tobacco. Once, to accentuate a meal of Michonne’s leftover stew and yeasty bread (which no one told her was yeasty), Jesus set out a vase of wildflowers. Daryl stared at them briefly before he took a seat and acted as if nothing was new. Jesus felt inadequate with regards to his talent in floral arrangements, but didn’t take it personally; Daryl wouldn’t appreciate such efforts, he should have known.

Daryl was the most amusing thing Jesus had ever encountered in his life, which included the long gone pre-apocalypse world. During the war and after Jesus had found himself at Daryl’s side; it was strange, then, to be without him, even if only for a couple days or a week at most. Therefore restless, Jesus began meeting Daryl at Alexandria’s gates on the evenings he was due to return, and everyone on that particular guard shift began making fun of them both—at first Daryl cursed Jesus, then their teasing neighbors, and finally himself for allowing Jesus to stick to him like a barbed burr.

It was a momentous relief when Denise finally lifted Jesus’s embargo.

During their first run together Jesus insisted he drive, to feel the capacity of freedom in the wheel and the wind funneling into his open window.

“You look like a dog,” Daryl said. Before Jesus twisted his words into another impossibly flirtatious innuendo, he added, “I’m insulting you.”

“I will turn this car around, Daryl Dixon,” Jesus threatened. He paused. “What’s your middle name, by the way?”

“Doug,” Daryl said.

“Really?” Jesus asked.

“Of course not. It’s Harold.”

“Family name?”

Daryl nodded. “You guessed it.”

Jesus smiled at the banter he’d missed greatly.

Daryl narrowed his eyes. “Get that look off your face.”

“Smiling is illegal now?”

“Sure, when it means you’ll do nothin’ good.”

“Now that really hurts,” Jesus said.

However, he allowed Daryl to pick a CD from the collection they’d amassed over the months. To Jesus’s surprise Daryl preferred bluegrass, roots rock, and folk over the death metal or eighties rock ballads he expected. Presently, Daryl played a little Robert Johnson off of a mix CD they scored from an otherwise fruitless bar.

“We’re bringing it down with this next track,” Jesus drawled as if he were a radio DJ. It was a gimmick he picked up to annoy Daryl, like so many other of his habits. Daryl scoffed but said nothing, and his impasse reaction only rejuvenated Jesus further.

He was at the top of his game all day, and found a cache of tools and supplies stowed in a padlocked shed. The rest of their run was a bust, which Jesus continually reminded Daryl of on the drive home. After returning to Alexandria and stopping off at inventory, they ambled to Daryl’s house through the safe zone’s dusky streets.

“So,” Jesus prompted.

Daryl narrowed his eyes. Sweat had unfailingly glued his bangs down, and instead of being gross it was mildly attractive. “What?” he asked suspiciously. (Okay, maybe more than mildly—moderately, at least.)

Jesus shrugged. “It was a nice day, is all.” He tipped his head back against the evening breeze. “I was gonna go crazy, cooped up any longer.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said. He paused. “It’s nice havin’ you back.”

“Excuse me?” Jesus turned to him, beaming. “Did Daryl Dixon just say something kind to me?”

Daryl shoved him. “Oh, fuck off, Pauly.”

“A nickname, too!” Jesus followed Daryl up the porch steps of his home. “Next thing you know, we’ll have friendship bracelets.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A secret handshake,” Jesus continued.

Daryl dropped onto the living room couch. “Okay.”

Jesus sat beside him. “We need to make a blanket fort, and tell each other secrets.”

“I’ll go first,” Daryl said. “I hate you.”

“Wow. That’s more burn book material, but okay.”

Daryl frowned. “The fuck’s a burn book?”

“You never watched Mean Girls?” Jesus asked. Daryl glared at him pointedly. “Nevermind.”

Daryl went to the kitchen all of a sudden and returned with a handle of Jack Daniels.

“Oh, it’s this kinda sleepover,” Jesus said. “The forty-five year old man sleepover.”

“Yup,” Daryl said, sitting back down. He unscrewed the Jack. “Nothin’ but whiskey and the history channel.”

Jesus laughed and patted Daryl’s knee. His hand stayed, and neither of them commented.

Daryl took a swig of whiskey and Jesus followed the bob of his throat.

To keep from getting ahead of himself, Jesus asked, “When am I meeting the parents?”

Daryl coughed. “What?”

“The gay dads. Aaron and Eric.”

“Oh.” Daryl picked at the label on the bottle. “I dunno.”

“What? Come on.” Jesus leaned closer so their sides touched. “I was so good today. Perhaps the goodest I have ever been.”

Daryl opened his mouth to rebuttal when there was a knock at the door. “Daryl?” Aaron’s voice called.

“Oh my god,” Jesus said.

“Shut up,” Daryl hissed. He rose to answer. “Yeah?”

Jesus lounged against the couch as casually theatrical as possible. Aaron smiled at Daryl, then caught sight of Jesus over his shoulder. “Um—”

Daryl stepped to the side. “What’s up?”

Aaron blinked. “We’re making spaghetti. Wondered if you wanted to come over... Am I interrupting something?”

“I wish,” Jesus jeered.

Daryl turned around. “Man, I’m tellin’ you!”

Jesus lifted his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Anyway,” Daryl turned back to Aaron, “I’d come, but I’m stuck fuckin’ babysitting.” He enunciated the last word with a glance behind himself.

“Jesus can come,” Aaron said. “We’d love to have him.”

“Like a big old GSA meeting,” Jesus said.

“You don’t gotta,” Daryl told Aaron, “really.”

“No, it’s fine. We haven’t properly talked since the war.”

Daryl closed his eyes briefly. “Okay.”

Aaron smiled, as if nothing were amiss. “Alright. See you in a bit.”

Daryl closed the door behind him.

Jesus grinned cheekily. “Don’t get too excited.”

“I’m gonna go change,” Daryl said and clomped to his room.

Jesus glanced down at his trench coat, gloves, and soiled button-down; perhaps he could use a change, too. He retrieved a plain t-shirt and clean jeans from what should have been an inset entertainment system but was now simply excess storage space.

“Let’s get this over with,” Daryl was saying as he entered the room. He stopped when he noticed Jesus’s change of clothes.

“I wasn’t about to let you of all people upstage me stylistically,” Jesus said. He strode to the front door, eyebrow quirked. “Ready to go?”

Daryl sighed and walked ahead of him, into the cool night.

“No bullshit, okay?” Daryl said once they were strolling Alexandria yet again. “I’m serious. These are good guys.”

“Daryl, I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset your fathers.”

“I’m serious, Paul.” Daryl stopped and grabbed Jesus’s arm. “I mean it.”

“I mean it, too; real talk.” Jesus smiled. “I promise. I’d never actually do anything to upset my best friend forever.”

“You’re the worst,” Daryl said. He was grinning, though, and Jesus’s smile widened.

They arrived at Aaron and Eric’s minutes later. Eric ushered them inside, talking animatedly. When Jesus entered the kitchen, Eric hung back to send Daryl a knowing smirk; Daryl scowled and asked if they needed help setting up the table, but Jesus was already at it, perfectly gentlemanly and polite. Daryl stood beside the counter, watching Jesus shake Aaron and Eric’s hands, take a stack of plates, and tuck his hair behind his ears before sitting down.

He sought Daryl across the table, lips upturned. Daryl sat down opposite of him and kicked his shin. Jesus’s shoulders jumped, but he didn’t respond otherwise. “Smell’s great,” he said.

The night carried on in a similar manner. Despite his request, Daryl was peeved at Jesus’s pleasant disposition. Halfway into the meal the toe of Jesus’s boot snaked up Daryl’s ankle, but his eyes and frown and the crease between his brows suggested a genuine concern. Daryl shoveled pasta into his mouth and allowed Jesus’s touch to stay.

Aaron and Eric saw them off with leftovers. By the looks on their faces, Jesus figured they’d spend the entire night talking about the dinner.

Jesus thought it went well, but Daryl’s confusing moodiness made him question otherwise. “What did I do?” he asked.

Daryl glanced at him. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“We need to work on your communication skills,” Jesus said.

“That—” Daryl paused and glanced away. “You were...different.”

“You told me to act nice, and I did.”

“I didn’t mean for you to be so...” Daryl’s face scrunched as he tried to find the words. “Not you.”

“Oh.” Jesus quieted, and they walked a few feet in silence. “I’m like that with everyone, though,” he eventually said, “all ‘not me.’”

Daryl frowned.

“I’m only me with you,” Jesus confessed. “Keeping Hilltop afloat, the war, all kinds of other shit. It was easier.” He grinned. “Then I met you, like you were begging me to make fun of you, and it was easy to be myself.”

“So you’re really just an asshole,” Daryl summarized.

“Basically,” Jesus said.

Daryl paused at his front door. “Let’s get drunk in the back.”

So they sat with Daryl’s boots on the railing and Jesus beside him, passing Jack and cigarettes back and forth.

“You cold?” Daryl asked when Jesus shivered. It was totally black now, no one’s lights on.

“A little,” Jesus said.

Daryl shrugged off his vest.

“Oh, great,” Jesus said, “this thing without sleeves will definitely keep me warm.”

He accepted the garment anyway, and sunk into his lawn chair with ease after he was surrounded by Daryl’s scent.

Jesus fell asleep without noticing, and awoke in Daryl’s bed with the vest still on. When he walked into the living room he saw Daryl on the couch, curled under his trench coat, and smiled to himself.


End file.
